


The Eleventh-Hour Light

by strix_alba



Category: Trans-Siberian Orchestra
Genre: Christmas, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:55:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strix_alba/pseuds/strix_alba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angel hoped to find joy and cheer in the bar; or, at the very least, a friendly face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eleventh-Hour Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kittydesade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittydesade/gifts).



As the angel walked, snow fell on the city, muting the echoes of traffic off the buildings which lined the streets. He wrapped his coat closer about himself as he plodded through snow transformed by tires and by hundreds of footsteps into a dirty brown slush, and continued his search.

It had begun several days prior, on the solstice. He had parted company with his brethren and descended from the heavens, every fiber of his being swelled with pride in his mission. He, and no other, would be the one to bring to the Lord tidings of the good that his people had wrought upon the earth this year. The angel had seen the joy of Christmases past in the gifts that others carried back, burning warm and golden in their hands. He had heard of the good of humanity, and so had come down prepared to spend three days and three nights, picking from among the best that they had to offer, in order to find the perfect gift.

And now, nothing.

Perhaps it was the place; perhaps it was the year; perhaps he simply hadn’t been looking the right way at the right time. Whatever the reason, he had had no success. There had been clamor and bustle; people shouting their stress and frustration at strangers in the streets; and empty wishes, from people who could have made a difference but chose to worry over their own lot instead. The angel sifted through the tides of humanity traveling up and down Broadway. He ventured beneath the earth and clung to the metal grips as the subway cars went hurtling the length of Manhattan, in the hopes of finding something that would bring happiness to his Lord on the day of his birth. But wherever he went, the angel found himself empty-handed.

The hour approached when he would have to return to his station, gift or no gift, and the angel dreaded the journey should he not succeed — for the first time in over two thousand years, an angel had been able to find no good in humanity, they would say! No. He would not be the one to deliver that message. 

As he walked, a solitary figure in the nearly empty streets, a light caught his eye — a bar, whose dark front had been faded and chipped by time. Though most doors had long since been locked, the flashing sign and the hunched backs of several figures within proclaimed it to be open. The angel looked around at the street, on the off chance that he might stumble upon his gift; and, finding none, thought that he would warm himself up before he returned to heaven. He could not imagine a joyful welcome would await him, and though he would not admit it to himself, he wished to postpone the disappointment of the host for a little while longer.

The angel hoped to find joy and cheer in the bar; or, at the very least, a friendly face. He found nothing of the sort. The room was dimly lit by candles at the tables and small lamps hung from the walls. They cast plum shadows over the battered furniture, highlighting sticky rings and streaks of old beer on the tables. The few men at the bar didn’t seem to mind; they sat with their pint glasses and mugs, silent save for the occasional murmur, without looking around. Static-filled Christmas music played from the speakers over the bar. It made the angel wince: he admired human ingenuity for the myriad songs which they composed for the birth of the Lord, but the snow had interfered with the reception, and the voices and instruments filtered through the radio grated on him.

Nevertheless, he had come here for warmth and company, and warmth, at least, he was determined to have. He approached the bar and sat down on the cleanest-looking bar stool. The bartender remained at the other end, swiping down the shelves with a rag. A commercial came on the radio. As the bartender went to change the station, he caught sight of the angel and wandered over, grumbling. 

“What’ll you be having, then?” he asked.

“Whatever you would recommend,” said the angel, for he knew nothing of human food and drink.

The bartender tugged on his beard and scowled, as though the suggestion that he would have recommendations was offensive to him. “That’ll be a Guinness,” he muttered.

The angel nodded. In short order, he found himself in possession of a bitter beverage which he sipped warily. As he did, he watched his fellow patrons, half a dozen solitary older men who seemed to be doing their best to avoid each others’ gazes. It occurred to the angel to wonder if any of them were avoiding a home where others waited for them, as he still did, or whether they had any homes at all. He determined to ask, and had just leaned forward to speak to the pockmarked man next to him when the door to the bar opened, and a child walked in.

The angel shut his mouth, and turned to watch the child. He could not have been more than eight, though he was so overwhelmed by the down jacket he wore that it was possible he only looked smaller than he was. His dark eyes danced around the room, flickering from each of the men at the bar, to the angel, before settling on the bartender. He climbed up on a barstool and leaned across the bar.

“I’m afraid I can’t serve you anything, boy,” said the bartender. “Go home.”

The boy shook his head. “There’s a girl outside who I think needs help,” he explained, eyes wide.

The angel let go of his glass and propped himself up on his elbows, leaning towards the far end of the bar in order to better hear the boy speaking to the bartender. But try as he might, after that first sentence he could hear nothing over the hymns on the radio. The boy pointed to the windows, and the bartender scoffed. The angel followed the path of the boy’s mittened hand. Outside, the snow continued to fall, illuminated by a street lamp which stood by a bus stop. A young woman stood huddled in the bus stop with her luggage, gloved hands pressed against her mouth for warmth. 

The bartender craned his neck around the boy to see her, and spoke in an even lower growl. Whatever he said, it made the boy’s face light up, smile a brilliant white against his skin. The bartender straightened and went back to the cash register behind the bar. He did not look at any of his patrons, nor at the child, deep wrinkles creasing his forehead as he shuffled through the cash. Though by outward appearances, he seemed irritated with the whole affair, the angel sat up so suddenly that he nearly fell off of his seat. For within the old bartender, as he counted out bills, something began to glow. A spark — only a little one, hardly visible even to the angelic eye — but one with an unmistakable golden quality. The angel released his drink and gripped the edge of the bar, heedless of the splintered corners that pressed into his palms.

The bartender glanced up at him, scowl unabated. The angel dropped his gaze, and feigned a deep interest in his empty hands. But with his head lowered, he watched the bartender as he slipped money out of the register and shut it with as little fanfare as possible. The spark within him grew to a flame; and the angel held his breath. Not now, he told himself, now was not the time for premature hope. He had seen many such sparks over the past three days, which had withered and gone dark before they could be turned into action. 

Then he thought on what he had just said, and he thought of the date, and nearly laughed. He turned around on his barstool as the bartender came out from behind the counter with the cash in one hand and a red knitted cap in the other, glancing this way and that as though afraid that someone might catch him in the act. The man sitting next to the angel looked up as the bartender went by. He held out his hand to tap the bartender on the shoulder, but at the last second refrained from asking any questions, and shrugged at the angel instead.

Together, they watched the bartender stretch the cap over his head and trudge outside, letting in a gust of frigid night air that rattled the bells on the door. As the door swung shut, the bartender shuffled through the snow to the girl standing underneath the street light.

“Whass ‘e doing?” asked one of the men at the other end of the bar.

“Dunno. Never seen him leave that counter the whole time I been coming here,” said another. “Figured he was glued to it.”

The bartender walked out into the street, arm raised, and though he had left the pool of light from the street lamp, he seemed to stand in a light of his own. The angel felt a flutter of hope in his chest. He and the men in the bar waited while a chorus on the radio sang Christmas carols, and a few solitary cars crawled through the slush which covered the avenue, and the bartender’s hand sank lower and lower while the young woman at the bus stop crossed her arms and shivered to keep warm. Finally, a taxi stopped. As the music on the radio came to a close, and the bar filled with the sound of static, the young woman and the old man clasped hands. She climbed into the taxi, and the bartender made his way back to the bar with empty hands.

He stopped short in the doorway when he saw his patrons watching him. “Yeah?” he said.

No one spoke. The angel smiled at him, and the bartender gave him an abrupt nod. He returned to his place behind the counter. He picked up the rag which he had been using when the angel first came in, and resumed cleaning the counter. After a moment, he stopped.

“Where’d that boy get to?” the bartender asked the room at large. “This time of night, he shouldn’t be out alone.”

There followed a puzzled silence, while the men who had been seated closest to him turned this way and that. The boy was nowhere to be found, though none had seen him leave. The men speculated among themselves, united in their search for the child in the blue jacket, but the bar was empty, and it was easy enough to see that he had somehow slipped out while no one was looking. The angel had his own theories, though he kept them to himself.

“Must’ve followed you out,” said the man who sat next to the angel. “Ah, kids. Mind getting me another one of these?” He raised his glass.

The bartender went to the tap and poured him a fresh mug, the light from within him reflecting off the glass and rendering the room just a little less gloomy. The man next to the angel pushed several worn bills at the bartender, who handed them back with an equal lack of ceremony. 

“You’ve already paid for your next round,” he said.

The man frowned at the money, up at the bartender’s impassive face, and looked back down, blinking. “Don’t think I did,” he began.

The bartender dropped the money back onto the counter. “I’m just as sure you did.” And he walked away before the man could protest.

The golden glow which had begun as a spark saturated the bar, bringing light to the unlit corners and erasing the deep shadows on the faces of the men, though the angel doubted that they could really see it. They would recognize it as a faint warmth in the air, an undoing of the knots in their shoulders, gifts in and of themselves. To the angel, it was a gift of a different sort. He finished his pint and slid off of his seat. “Thank you,” he said to the bartender.

The bartender paused in the act of taking away the empty glass of another patron. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

The angel bundled himself into his coat, preparing for the cold outside once more because the hour, though late, was not yet past. He stepped out into the night, grey and brown below his feet and saturated above with the purple of a hundred neon signs which kept the sky from ever becoming truly dark. Somewhere else in the city, a young woman made her way home; in the bar, the bartender handed a man his drink and asked for his name in return; and above, the angel returned with a gift.


End file.
